


Seaside Shuffle

by Historical_Muse



Category: Still Crazy (1998)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Historical_Muse/pseuds/Historical_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another West Country B&B weaves its magic and becomes gnome, sweet gnome...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seaside Shuffle

**Author's Note:**

> * In the movie, Tony Costello was played by Stephen Rea, and Luke Shand by Hans Matheson.
> 
> * For the uninitiated, Uncut is a music magazine, not a porn mag. :¬D

Common sense was _never_ a virtue considered necessary in the crazy, madcap world of Strange Fruit. 

As Shirley Bassey might almost have put it, if there was a wrong way to do it, a good way to fuck it up, then more than likely the Fruits would be in there like a shot, tumbling over themselves to be first in the queue for the latest disaster in which they’d got themselves embroiled.  In the old days they had Neil Gaydon to blame:  now that they only had themselves, it was strange – and yet somehow not entirely surprising – how nothing had really changed...

...And so it was that in the crisp Indian summer of a bright, sleepy-eyed autumn, Strange Fruit found themselves on a mini-tour of the West Coast...

The West Coast of _England_ , that is...

Still blinking, bleary-eyed, in the after-glow of their Wisbech comeback, they had welcomed Clive Ewing’s advice about doing a few warm-up gigs before making a serious attempt at a longer tour on the back of a come-back album and a re-released boxed set of their old material.  Unfortunately, not even Karen’s cool brain could dissuade them from taking it into their collective heads to do a couple of this handful of gigs in seaside towns already beginning to think about shutting down for the winter.

It was something they’d done before in the early, heady days of their stardom – and something they’d more than likely do again when they’d thought about it some more.  But for now, still drunk with enthusiasm and after a summer round of media interviews, one-off gigs and a new album slowly taking shape in rehearsal room and studio, cruising the West Coast seemed like a journey back into the past in search of inspiration and former glories.

Well, if nothing else, it proved that this was one band who were _definitely_ still crazy... 

* * * * * * * * * * *

“Listen to this, guys!” Karen said, standing at the front of the coach and raising her voice to be heard over the general raucous hubbub.  “’My Kind of Day by Beano Baggott’,” she quoted from a copy of the **_Radio Times_**.  Immediately she was greeted by a wave of catcalls that she quelled with a flap of her magazine.  “No, trust me, it’s good stuff, this.”

“I can’t believe the **_Radio Times_** asked Beano of all people for a detailed run-down of his daily round,” Ray opined with a sigh.  “I mean, how interesting can it _be_?”

“Aye,” agreed Les.  “Woke up, scratched me arse, farted, scratched me bollocks, got up, ate last night’s kebab for breakfast...”

Karen grinned and looked up from the article.  “Actually it’s really interesting.  ‘I wake up at 6.30 every morning when my radio alarm goes off and starts my day with a burst of Classic FM.  Then, after a brisk jog around the park – ’”

“ _Park_?” exclaimed Tony in disbelief.  “You live in the middle of a fuckin’ _field_ , Beano!”

“...’Then after a brisk jog around the park and a bracing shower I breakfast on muesli, fruit juice and selected dried fruits to give me energy...’”

“It’s _bollocks_!” exclaimed Les, face a study in sceptical glee.

“As a matter of fact it’s not,” an unperturbed Beano informed everyone matter-of-factly.  “I always like to start my day with a bit of the old Saint-Saëns or Debussy.  Or perhaps even a touch of Holst.  Elgar, for preference.  But if there’s nothing else on offer, then I’ll make do with a little Albinoni.”

“Albinoni...”  Karen looked across at Tony for reassurance.  “That’s not rhyming slang for something, is it?”

Tony could only offer an apologetic shrug.  “If it is, it’s a new one on me!”

“ _And_ me,” Brian observed from his front seat, brushing back his wayward hair with a careful hand.  “I thought I knew every euphemism going for every possible depravity known to man – but ‘having an Albinoni’ is way beyond even _my_ realms of knowledge...”

Tony felt a sharp pang of envy as Karen laughed at Brian’s joke and smoothed her fingers through his hair as their eyes met and they shared their laughter.  It was good to have Brian back on board, it was true – but it also served to remind Tony of just what he’d lost when he finally realised that Karen was never going to be his.

He was roused from his gloomy reverie by a sudden chorus of hoots, whistles, bawdy catcalls, and cheers.  “Bloody hell,” he heard Karen gasp.  “Who on earth poured you into _those_?”

Looking round the seat in front of him, Tony’s jaw dropped at the sight of Luke Shand, the youngest member of the Fruits.  No _wonder_ Luke was causing such a stir when he was wearing a distressed denim jacket flung on over the tiniest, clingiest t-shirt and the tightest pair of PVC trousers Tony had ever seen in his life.  Black leather biker boots with shiny silver buckles, an assortment of leather and metal bracelets and artfully smudged kohl accentuating the guitarist’s already smoky eyes completed the look – and Tony had to admit that something about this vision and attendant ensemble disturbed him far more than he cared to consider.  Worse still, it wasn’t the _first_ time that Luke had had this effect on him.

“Well at least we can see you’re not Jewish, Shandy!” Les guffawed, waving his can of Newcastle Brown in Luke’s direction.

Ray tutted.  “Oh leave him alone.  You’re just jealous because he looks better in them than you would.”

“Wouldn’t lower meself,” Les sniffed.

“Does this mean as we’re gonna start includin’ some of the Vienna Boys’ Choir’s Greatest ’Its in the set from now on?” enquired Beano innocently from over his copy of _Mojo_ before breaking into a quavering falsetto version of _Oh For the Wings of a Dove_ which owed more to _The Goon Show_ ’s Bluebottle than Aled Jones.  “Only I bet ‘is voice ‘as gone up a couple of octaves at the very _least_ wearin’ those...”

Les shook his head.  “You don’t intend wearin’ those out in public, do you?” he demanded, his own voice having shot up several octaves in disbelief.

Luke put his guitar case and holdall on the seat in front of Tony’s and looked down at the slick, shiny trousers in bemusement.  “What’s wrong with them?”

“You do rather have the look of a rent boy about you in those slacks, young Luke,” Beano commented mischievously.

Hughie spluttered with laughter.  “Aye, I can see the headlines now,” he gurgled, peering round from his driver’s perch.  “Fornicatin’ Fruit in Rent Boy Scandal...”

“Oh fuck off,” Luke retorted, executing an elegant double-handed two-finger salute in the direction of the older Fruits and glaring at the roadies giggling at the back of the coach.  He peered down at himself again, opened his hands in approval, and smirked back at the chortling crew.  “When you’ve got it, boys, you gotta flaunt it...”

“’Flaunt it’ my arse,” Beano scoffed.

“Please – _no!_ ” shuddered Ray.

“After all,” Luke continued, “when you look this good, why not share it?”  He looked down at himself again and spread his hands appraisingly.  “Look on my perfection and weep, boys:  look on my perfection and weep...”  He swung down into his seat and gave Tony a coy, heavy-lidded look and a wink through the gap between the headrests.  “Because I’ve got it in spade-fulls – and I’m a generous guy an’ I wanna share it...”

“A tight pair of PVC trousers isn’t the answer to _everything_ ,” Les opined piously.

Tony grinned.  “That’s true.  I’d hate to see _Beano_ in a pair of those.”

Luke snorted.  “ _Christ_ – his arse would look like a bacon hock wrapped in cling-film...”

“A bacon hock can be very toothsome if it’s cooked correctly,” observed Beano mildly.

A loud groan suddenly emanated from Les’s area of the coach.  “Oh my god – ‘Bacon Balls’ Baggott...  Now _there’s_ an image I could’ve lived without!”

* * * * * * * * *

“Who the hell _did_ spray those on, Luke?” Tony laughed as he collected his room key, his earlier gloomy mood now totally dispersed.

Luke merely grinned, shrugged, and spread his arms, looking down at himself appreciatively.  “Got to show off the goods to their best advantage, man...”

“Well you be careful when you’re out tonight,” Karen cautioned him.  “And make sure you take your room key.”

Luke flicked his eyes heavenwards and sighed, looking to Tony for support.  “Yes, mum...” 

“Where you off to, anyway?” Karen continued. 

Luke dug his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, as exasperated as any teenager under his mother’s watchful eye.  “A nightclub in town.  Don’t worry; I can take care of myself.” 

“Yes, well...you just be careful.” 

Luke reached over and kissed Karen on the forehead.  “Don’t you worry about me, mum.  I’ll be all right!” 

“Well you just make sure as you are,” Karen retorted as Luke turned and walked away.  “And don’t call me ‘mum’!” she yelled as a horrified after-thought as he turned back, laughed, and gave her a wave. 

“And keep an eye out for strange women!” Tony shouted after him. 

“ _And_ strange men!” added Karen.  Tony gave her an old-fashioned look of dismay.  “Just moving with the times,” she replied blithely. 

“I bet you’re glad he’s not yours!” 

“I’ll say...” 

The two of them exchanged wry looks, then looked back towards the hotel doorway.  “I can’t help but worry,” Karen admitted.  “You know how much it means to Brian and the rest of us to get the band back on the road again – and Luke getting off his face and into trouble is something we just don’t need right now.” 

“Give him credit, though, Karen,” Tony smiled.  "He’s a good kid.  And _talking_ of good kids, how’s Clare?” 

Karen collected the key to the room she was sharing with Brian from the receptionist.  “Spoke to her earlier on.  She’s fine.” 

“Not missing the crazy world of rock an’ roll at all?” 

“Not in the slightest, she says.  Says it was fun while it lasted, but she’s decided that A-Levels and Uni are definitely a better bet for the future than washing Beano’s socks and your underpants.  She might join us later, though – maybe she’ll take after her mum and realise that once it’s in the blood, you can never get rid of rock and roll.” 

“Does she miss Luke?” 

“No.”  An emphatic shake of the head.  “That was just a passing phase, her moment of madness with a wild-boy rocker.”  She grinned ruefully.  “Listen to me,” she sighed.  “As if I wasn’t just the same at her age.  Falling for errant guitarists must run in the family.  Not that Luke’s really a _bad_ boy, just...well...” 

“Insatiable?” offered Tony with a chuckle. 

Karen laughed.  “He _is_ a tomcat, isn’t he!”  A thought struck her.  “Probably explains the way he walks, though...” 

* * * * * * * * *

The sound of the surf crashing against the shore and enticing the skittish shingle to follow it back into the depths of the sea teased at Tony’s ears as something stirred him slowly from his sleep.  Head thick and brain non-functioning, Tony fumbled for the travelling alarm clock at the side of his bed, peered at the face in the light from the badly hung curtains, and groaned in disbelief at the early hour.

Still listening to the waves on the shingle he swung his legs out of bed, perched himself on the edge of the mattress – and then realised that not only was there no beach at this end of the town, but what beach there was consisted of gritty sand, not pebbles.  So was it rain, then?  He sat and listened, yawning and ruffling his hair, until it became quite obvious that even in the West Country rain didn‘t come and go in fits and starts accompanied by a strange high-pitched gurgling sound.  And in that moment, all became clear:  there was someone shying gravel from the hotel drive up at his window.

Scrambling off the bed and to the window in bewilderment, Tony hoiked up the partially-open sash just as an especially large nugget from the hotel’s formal rockery sailed past his head and thumped against his wardrobe, setting the coat-hangers inside jangling in sympathy with his nerves.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, you tosser!” he bellowed, head and shoulders thrust out of the window pugnaciously...only to find himself staring down at Luke.  Who was staring up at him, gnome in hand, whilst giggling helplessly and clearly either drunk or high.  Or both.

“Forgotten my key, man...”  Luke cuddled the hideous crockery sprite to his chest.  “An’ me an’ my baby want to come in...”

“You wanker!” Tony snarled, slamming down the window in exasperation.

He stamped off towards Karen and Brian’s room, pounding on the door until Brian, looking even more tousled and sleepy than usual, opened it and let light spill out into the gloomy hallway.  For a moment, he peered at Tony from behind his fringe like a faun at bay in the undergrowth, and then sighed.

“It’s just after 2.30, Tony...”  The words were gentle, but a rebuke all the same.

Tony relented.  “I know, I know.  I – just want to speak to Karen...”  He peered into the room and smiled with relief when Karen‘s pale face appeared over Brian’s shoulder.  “It‘s Luke,” he announced, as though this explained everything.

Karen’s eyes widened.  “What’s happened...”

“Oh, nothing, nothing – he’s just...well, he’s forgotten his key and he's locked out.”

“And you want me to do – _what_ , exactly?"

For a moment, Tony didn’t know what to say; sorting out Strange Fruit crises was Karen’s job, wasn’t it?  “Um – well – go and talk to the night porter...get him to let Luke in...” 

Pulling her wine-coloured robe tighter, Karen shouldered her way past the bemused Brian.  “Tony, one of Luke’s many talents is that he can pick locks.”  Her voice was cracked and smoky with sleep and despite the situation was already having an interesting effect on Tony’s groin.  “So tell him to get picking because it’s not my job to pull his nuts out of the fire any more.”

Tony‘s face fell.  “It isn’t?” 

Karen sighed.  “You know what I mean.  But it’s the middle of the night and I really don’t need this.  Tell him to pull himself together and to pick his way in.” 

“But he’s _pissed_ ,” Tony protested plaintively. “Or stoned.  Or something.” 

“I don’t _care_ ,” she snapped.  “I did tell him to take his key and it’s not my fault if he’s too stoned or too stupid to remember what he’s done with it.  Like I said before, I’m not his mother.” 

“I’m not his _father_!”

“Well you’re _old_ enough to be his father – _you_ deal with him.” 

Stung, Tony’s mouth dropped open.  “I am _not_...” he began indignantly.  Brian started to laugh, but caught Karen’s glare and turned it neatly into a cough.  “Karen... _please_!” 

“No way, José.”

 “But he’s got a _gnome_ with him!”

 Karen put one hand on the doorjamb and the other on the edge of the door.  “Tony, I don’t care if he’s got Tinkerbell, Bilbo Baggins and Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs with him – _this is not my problem_...” 

Tony stared at the closed door for a few moments after it was slammed shut, and then loped glumly down the hall towards the stairs to the ground floor, Brian’s laughter and Karen’s incredulous and all-too accurate imitation – “But he’s got a _gnome_ with him!” – still ringing discordantly in his ears. 

* * * * * * * * *

Yes, he _did_ know what time it was, and yes, he _was_ aware that guests should either take their outdoor keys or be back at a reasonable time and yes, he _did_ know that the gnome was valuable hotel property and would have to be paid for if it got smashed. 

Tony withstood the night porter’s lecture as best he could; the man was clearly not happy with the idea of rock musicians staying at his bijou establishment and was determined to have his say before any of them got any sleep.

And by now, he was well into his stride.  “...And I think it’s _disgusting_ , allowing your son to get himself into such a state...” 

“He’s not my son,” Tony sighed for the umpteenth time.  “He’s a member of the band.” 

“Band member my arse,” the porter retorted.  “Looks more like one of those male gropies to me.” 

Another weary sigh and a glare at Luke for his sudden loud giggle.  “ _Groupies_...  And he isn‘t.” 

“It’s bloody disgusting having nancy boys staying here – this is a respectable establishment, this is!” 

“’This is a _respectable_ establishment, this is’!” Luke parroted back, by now paroxysmal with mirth and clasping the gnome to his groin in an unseemly and suggestive fashion. 

“It’s a bloody disgrace!” was the parting shot as the night-porter practically threw Luke’s key at him – only for Luke to throw it back on discovering that not only was it not his key, but that he’d had his own key all along.  Which, naturally, did not go down too well. 

By now Tony was too tired to argue about either Luke’s parentage or his perceived employment and instead set off back up the stairs, half-carrying Luke who had draped himself over the older man like a blanket. 

“For such a skinny little fucker you weigh a ton,” Tony puffed as he kicked open his bedroom door. 

“There are _two_ of us, don’t forget...” 

“How could I,” Tony sighed, catching sight of the ugly little gnome Luke was clasping to his bosom.  “There’s not just you and me, there’s Robin Cook as well...” 

“He’s my friend, he is,” Luke giggled, gazing down at the psychedelic pixie in adoration.  He kissed the little ornament on the nose and then licked provocatively at its little pointed hat.  “And I love him.” 

Tony shuddered as he back-heeled the door closed.  “Christ, Luke, don’t do that!  You don’t know how many dogs have pissed up it...!" 

“Do you suppose he’d like me to fuck him?” Luke asked innocently, falling backwards onto Tony‘s bed and sprawling across it like a soused starfish. 

Tony grimaced.  “I doubt it.”  It didn’t help that an image from _Fawlty Towers_ of John Cleese striding off with a large garden gnome to be inserted into a hapless builder was currently morphing into another where Luke was fucking something, but it didn’t appear to be a gnome.  “Now what are we going to do with you?”

Eyes dark and mischievous, Luke splayed his limbs indecorously.  “What have you got in mind?” 

“Getting you back to your own room, since we now know that you do in fact have your key.”  He held out his hand.  “ _Give_.” 

Still giggling, Luke began to dig in his pockets, writhing around in an unseemly effort to reach his room key and giving Tony even more of a headache than before.  On discovering it at last, Luke handed over the key with a charming leer.  “’S still warm!” 

“Give me strength...” 

The headache had now definitely spread to his groin.  Tony took himself off down the hall towards Luke‘s room, carefully avoiding Karen and Brian‘s door and feeling more pangs of envy at the thought of them tucked up in bed together -- perhaps even having sex, he thought gloomily.  This was turning into a fucking _awful_ evening... 

* * * * * * * * * 

Luke looked up at Tony through his sweat-spiked fringe, batting his eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion as the older man stomped back into the room.  “Any luck?” 

Tony hurled the key back at him in exasperation.  “You evil little fucker – that _wasn’t_ your key after all, was it...and you _knew_ it wasn’t.  What the fuck are you playing at, Luke?” 

Luke sat up with difficulty, sucked in his bottom lip, and braced his hands on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, looking very much like a naughty, PVC-clad elf.  “Absolutely nothing!” he replied innocently. 

“Where _is_ your key, then?  Still hanging up behind Reception?”  Luke nodded.  “And so what do you intend doing now?  Because sure as fuck I’m not going back down _there_ again!” 

Luke was hugging his gnome.  “Can’t I sleep with _you_?” 

“Over my dead body!”  Unfortunately, to one very _un_ -dead part of Tony’s body, this idea wasn’t exactly dismissed out of hand.  _< Oh God...>_ 

“Oh go on – _please_?" 

Tony looked at Luke, at his alarm clock, at his watch, and back at Luke again.  It was 3.00am and he was feeling his age as well as totally whacked.  He was so tired that he didn’t want to argue any more – neither did he want aggrieved guests banging on the door and demanding they keep the noise down.  Closing his eyes for a moment, he knew that he had no choice but to acquiesce to Luke’s suggestion. 

But there were problems.  The strange feelings of arousal that Luke provoked in him were unsettling and made him feel uncomfortable – the _last_ thing he wanted was to share a bed with this alluring, lupine boy.  However, Tony was tired, in no mood to argue and, in a moment of weakness, found himself agreeing. 

“All right,” he said.  “But as it’s only a single bed you’re to stick to your own half and no hogging the duvet.”  Then he sniffed.  “And for God’s sake get cleaned up – your mascara’s run, you look like a panda on heat, and _Christ_ knows what you’ve got on your trousers.  And you are not getting into bed with me until you’ve freshened yourself up; you stink of lager, sweat, fags, and cheap perfume – and it’s not a great combination.” 

Luke merely beamed at him.  “You’re a true gentleman,” he hiccupped.  “Thank you!” 

And then Tony winced as Luke bounced off the bed, seized his gnome and walked across to the window before throwing open the sash and hurling the primary-coloured plaster monstrosity out into the night where it exploded in a satisfying eruption of shards on the drive below. 

* * * * * * * * * 

Watching Luke shower was quite an experience.  Propped up on one elbow under the duvet, Tony shook his head resignedly as Luke, singing raucously, allowed water to spray the entire bathroom and not just his hair and body. 

“Don’t forget behind your ears,” Tony offered tonelessly, flicking through a copy of _Uncut_. 

“Yes, dad...” 

“...And your neck.” 

“Yes, dad...” 

“...And your armpits...” 

“Yes, dad...” 

“And your bollocks.” 

“Yes, dad...” 

“And Luke?" 

“Yes, daddy?” 

“Don‘t call me ‘daddy’!” 

Luke was still giggling as he began washing his hair. 

Tony winced again – and not just because the bathroom carpet must be totally ruined by now.  He didn’t like being reminded that he was indeed old enough to be Luke’s father – particularly when his feelings towards Luke were growing less paternal by the minute.  How could he _not_ have faint twinges of lust when the boy – and he _was_ a boy – had such a deliciously taut, muscular body and an arse to die for? 

It wasn’t as though Tony had never experimented before; he had fond memories of a night spent with Ray in a dingy Somerset B&B and it wasn’t the first time he’d found a beautiful young man attractive.  But now, as then, he still felt himself to be too mundane and colourless for someone like Luke to be attracted to – and certainly much too old.  He could understand Luke being attracted to Ray – or to Brian or Les...even Beano, given that there was no accounting for tastes.  But Luke being attracted to him, Tony Costello?  No, it didn’t add up.  So why was Luke pissing him around now? 

Tony sighed.  Because, perhaps, Luke saw him as an easy target.  Maybe Luke had already sensed the attraction Tony felt towards him and had decided to torment him.  But then no, that didn’t actually seem likely – they seemed to have far too much in common for that. 

When the band was rehearsing, Luke rarely left his side, continually jamming and experimenting and allowing Tony to indulge himself in his love of playing music.  Yes, the others loved playing too; but most of the time they were content to simply rehearse or knock out a few rock standards just for the fun of it.  Luke alone was the one prepared to spend hours with him, playing simply because they wanted to; on more than one occasion they’d sung themselves hoarse as they’d worked their way through as many songs as they could remember, revelling in the sheer pleasure of making music.  As a guitarist Luke was easily as gifted as Brian had ever been – perhaps more so, in fact – and it was a joy to have such a talent to play off against. 

But did Luke see this as a weakness of some kind to be exploited?  Tony felt his heart sink.  God, he hoped not... 

“Tony!” 

Tony gave a start.  “What?” 

“Look!” 

“What?”  Tony looked across to see Luke busy cleaning his teeth, striped toothpaste smeared across his mouth and hand as he used his forefinger as a toothbrush. 

“Look...see...I’m doing all this for _you_...” 

“All I said was that I didn’t want to share a bed with someone smelling like a pub dustbin!” 

“All for you,” Luke continued with a groin-melting grin.  “Just so that I’m nice to sleep with...” 

_< Oh God...>_ 

Moments later Luke had rinsed out his mouth and switched off the bathroom light.  As he began loping towards the bed, Tony tried hard not to look at him because he knew that if he did he’d merely end up staring, a large puddle of drool spreading slowly across the duvet cover. 

The room, lit only by a bedside lamp now, had an intimate, almost erotic ambience – and up as close as this it was impossible to ignore just how beautiful Luke was naked.  Given his lithe body, strutting walk, total lack of shame in his nakedness and the inviting cock and balls that seemed to taunt Tony as the younger man came towards him, Luke was a tempting package that few would be able to resist. 

Not liking the direction in which his thoughts were travelling, Tony brushed his magazine off the bed, switched off the bedside lamp, and settled down under the duvet.  “Night,” he mumbled, turning his back to Luke as he finally reached the bedside. 

Luke paused, then lifted the bedcover and wriggled in beside Tony.  The sudden draft of the raised duvet followed by the warmth of its replacement and the heat of Luke’s body made Tony tense himself and shiver – then shiver again when he felt Luke’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Cold, babe?” 

“Don’t call me ’babe’!” 

Wrapping his arms around Tony’s waist, Luke snuggled up against his back, burying his face in the older man’s shoulder.  “You smell nice,” he murmured, muffled by t-shirt fabric. 

Tony thought he would explode.  “Get off – get _off!_ ” he exclaimed, trying to push Luke away. 

Tony’s exasperated struggles only served to make Luke chuckle and nestle closer.  “Don’t fight it, Tony.  You’re my friend, you are.  I’m just tryin’ to keep you warm, man.” 

“I am not _cold_!”  Tony finally managed to disentangle himself from Luke’s warm and surprisingly powerful arms.  “Get off me!  Get _off!_ ” 

Luke gave way.  “Okay man, it’s cool.  Only tryin’ to help...” 

“Well you weren’t...” 

“No?” 

“No.” 

“Sorry, man...” 

“So you should be...” 

“It‘s cool, man.” 

“Go to sleep...” 

“Yes, dad.” 

Tony cursed under his breath.  “For fuck’s _sake_...” 

“ _What_?” 

“Don’t _call_ me that – I’m not your dad!” 

“Wouldn't be gettin’ into bed with you if you were, man,” Luke retorted, sounding slightly wounded as he moved away. 

“Just go to fucking sleep...” 

“Yes, d-Tony...  Night-night...” 

* * * * * * * * * 

Tony felt hot, let alone warm.  The mischief in Luke’s voice when he used the word “dad” had disconcerted him no end.  And as for how it felt when the boy pressed his naked body against his back... _Oh Christ..._ Even the mere memory of feeling the pressure of that plump cock and balls hard up against his buttocks was making his own twitch disloyally and he was glad that even though it was only a t-shirt and y-fronts he wasn’t lying naked at Luke’s side. 

Feeling as miserable as sin, Tony lay in the darkness, listening to Luke’s breathing as it gradually slowed into the regular rhythm of sleep and wished that he too could simply fall into the oblivion he craved.  Here he was, sharing a tiny single bed with a beautiful, naked youth and trying hard even in this cramped space not to let an inch of himself so much as brush against that enticing flesh. 

Yes, there was no doubt about it now:  it _was_ a fucking awful night... 

* * * * * * * * * 

Tony woke with a start, for a moment unsure of where exactly he was – then relaxed when he remembered he was in a tiny hotel bed in a tiny hotel bedroom in a tiny seaside town.  He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he felt warm and relaxed, and ineffably comfortable, snug and warm under the duvet in the morning chill. 

But as he lay dozing, he became aware of not feeling as comfortable as he’d thought he was – and of a gentle sound to his right.

It wasn’t until Luke shifted position and nestled closer that Tony finally understood.  Luke had one arm under Tony’s neck and the other slung across his chest and shoulder, his fingers linked together in the crook of Tony’s neck.  And the low crooning noise...  At first, Tony couldn’t place it – but gradually he became aware that Luke was singing softly under his breath – and as he turned, startled, towards the boy, Luke sensed his wakeful state and opened his eyes, smiling at Tony with a child’s guileless innocence. 

“How do you know that song?”  Tony‘s sleep-choked voice was barely above a whisper, but Luke heard all the same.  And he grinned again, like a changeling child in a wedding bed. 

“A bootleg,” came the whispered reply.  “I‘ve always loved it...it‘s _beautiful_...” 

Tony stared at him for a moment, then closed his eyes again.  _Open Book_ – he’d not heard that song in he didn‘t know how long.  It was a one-off he’d recorded by himself during a break in the recording sessions for _The Quiet One_ – something he’d sung to his own piano accompaniment, more as a try-out than anything else.  A song he’d written for – no – _about_...  Well, it didn’t matter who he’d written it about; she was out of his life now, another of Neil Gaydon’s casualties.  And because of that the song had never made it anywhere, or so he’d thought. 

Hugging Tony closer, Luke began singing again, voice sleepy but still clear and strong: 

“ _I know that you care, but you don’t know how much – and everyone sees it but you;_

_You try hard to hide it, pretend you don’t care – but baby, I know that you do._

_You think I don’t know how you feel but I do, watching you try to pretend._

_Thinking that somehow I‘ll never find out, but I know that I will in the end._

_‘Cos you can’t hide your feelings and you never could – it’s just one more part of the game._

_And what’s worse is that you never stop to consider that I might be feeling the same..._ ” 

For a moment, Tony lay still, remembering a woman from a long time ago and feelings that he‘d almost forgotten existed.  Finally he touched Luke‘s fingers, squeezing them with his own.  “Tell me the truth.  Where did you hear that song?” 

Luke shrugged.  “Friend of a friend.  This guy who worked at Mendip Music Studios was clearing out some old tapes and _Open Book_ was on one of them.  A mate of mine who plays the West Country festival circuit met him at a gig and got talking to him.  He knew I was a big fan of the Fruits and knew I‘d be interested in a bootleg copy.  In fact, I‘ve got the _only_ copy,” he added with pride.  “The guy from the studio was some scrote of a kid who’d never heard of the Fruits and didn’t know how important they were – he would’ve just binned the tape if my mate hadn’t stepped in.” 

Oddly moved by Luke’s revelation, Tony squeezed his hand.  “Thanks for saving that little gem for posterity,” he said wryly. 

“My pleasure!”  Luke snorted.  “What a tosser...works at a fuckin’ recording studio and never heard of Strange Fruit?  Wanker...”  He stroked the side of Tony‘s neck.  “It's a great song, man.  You should‘ve recorded it properly, not just left it to...  Christ, I _love_ that album, man – you should’ve put _Open Book_ on it, too – would‘ve made it _perfect_.  Man, why _didn’t_ you?” 

For a moment, Tony didn’t know what to say.  “Because,” he said finally, “I had my reasons...” 

“I'd really like to know, man.”  Luke’s voice was gentle.  “Will you tell me one day?” 

“One day...”

“Promise?” Luke was teasing him again and suddenly it felt good. 

“When you’re older.  Now go back to sleep – and we‘ll discuss the royalties you owe me on that bootleg in the morning, you little sod!” 

Luke‘s shiver of laughter was delicious.  “Yes, man...anything you say, man...” 

* * * * * * * * * 

As though some unknown mission had been accomplished, Luke slipped back into sleep very quickly, his breath warm and oddly reassuring against Tony’s neck.  Tony however lay awake a while longer, mind working over-time as he tried to make sense of his emotions and Luke’s revelations.  He found that he didn’t mind lying with Luke’s arms wrapped around him; now the closeness and contact was comforting rather than disturbing – it soothed him to have the warmth of another human being at his side.

Luke had given him a lot to think about -- not all of it something he wanted to investigate too deeply for fear of what he would find.  But the idea of _Open Book_ languishing in a cupboard for over 25 years now struck him as somehow disloyal.  Maybe he should’ve destroyed the tape when he’d had the chance.  But maybe Luke was right and it should've gone on the album, even though it was such a deeply personal song.  Either way he was moved to know that it had finally found a home with someone who was not only now a member of the band but was also someone who loved the song as much as he’d loved... 

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as painful memories threatened to engulf him again.  Perhaps one day he would tell Luke what he wanted to know – but until that day came... 

Pushing the thought away, he turned his head and watched Luke sleeping, aware that some kind of Rubicon had been crossed that evening but not sure of anything more than that.  No doubt in the morning they would discover that Luke had indeed switched his hotel room key for a spare one from behind the reception desk simply in order to create a few hours’ havoc for Tony – though for what reason he couldn’t tell.  But one thing was for sure:  he wasn’t going to forget this night in a hurry. 

And then he thought of the broken gnome lying in pieces on the hotel drive – and gave a wry chuckle. 

“Guess that makes two of us, then,” he said. 

_~~~~~finis~~~~~_

**Author's Note:**

> I was once a member of a Yahoo group for Still Crazy; we had a website laid out as a spoof website for Strange Fruit themselves, and we had a truly fabulous time writing gig and album reviews, interviews, gossip snippets and other stuff that might’ve come straight from Fab 208, NME, and other music/teenage mags from the late 60s-early 70s. Ah, good times. :¬)


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